


Paint Over It All

by JulieVerne



Category: Bomb Girls
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-22 14:23:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22651387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulieVerne/pseuds/JulieVerne
Summary: Betty muses over the changes in Kate since she killed her father. Things are different, and that's not always bad. Chapter titles based on Ani diFranco lyrics.Originally posted on fanfiction.net, cross-posting for... prosperity?
Relationships: Kate Andrews/Betty McRae
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1: And I am getting nowhere with you

You haven't really spoken to Kate in weeks. Nothing other than unavoidable chichat in the halls of the boarding house, or on the bomb assembly lines. You notice that she doesn't change next to you anymore.

Gladys does, and she doesn't seem to give a damn. Gladys, who knows what you are and doesn't give a damn. Gladys with her perfect hair and perfect fiancé and perfect life, still wants to be friends with you. You've seen Gladys and Kate talking though, and you're pleased. Kate needs someone to keep her grounded. You haven't come across her sleeping on the couch again and her skin has stopped smelling like stale beer when she brushes close enough for you to take in her scent. She smells like cordite and soap, the way you do, the way everyone but Gladys does.

But you've run out of ways to say that everything will be fine. You don't know it will be and you don't want to promise her a lie.

She asked why you wanted her ruining your life and you wanted to tell her that your life was better with her in it, even if she never feels anything for you. Even if she'd forgotten what happened the night of Pearl Harbour. You almost hope she has. Forgotten, that is.

Whenever you think of it you don't remember the sweet smile on her face just before you leaned in, you don't remember the feel of her so-soft hand on your so-sore shoulder and you especially don't remember the feel of her palm against your lips. You can only remember the look of disgust on her face as she sprang away from you, and sometimes you think you can still see that look on her face. She used to look at you like you'd saved her, and you hadn't; not yet at least, and when you did you lost her. Now she doesn't look at you at all.

You know she left with her father because of what you did, and you don't know what happened to her in the months between but you never knew her soul could be so bitter. When she first came to VicMu, scars still fresh, even under all the fear, she had the brightest laugh and the lightest soul. Now it weighs heavy, and you know it's your fault. You pushed her away from her life just as much as she pushed you away from her mouth, just as much as her father pushed you away from his daughter, all the way across the hall.

Just as much as she pushed him away from you, off a flight of stairs.

Seems as the scars fade on her back, the scars on her soul just keep getting deeper.

So much of what Kate's been doing since she came back doesn't make sense to you. You understood the way she drank after the alleyway, hell, you'd been knocking down whiskey yourself. You understood that she felt safe at the boardinghouse and you also understood why she felt she had to leave. You didn't understand the catch in her voice when she not-quite-asked if Ivan appreciated your new skin regime. You didn't understand the vitriol in her voice when she comments on the way you spoke of Ivan after you broke it off. You didn't understand the way she invited Gene over and tried to keep his attention in a room full of women.

You were glad Gladys was perched on the arm of your chair, radiating her own confusion, along with welcome warmth and a measure of sympathy that made you leap at the chance to leave the room, Kate sprawled across Gene's lap as tawdry as you've ever seen her. She never wanted you. This is what she wants. And she's safe here, and that's all you should care about.

That night, in the cellar with the Nazi, wasn't the worst you had ever passed. Neither was the night in the car with Ivan. The worst night you passed was the night Kate left, and so everything that happened you compared to that and somehow, just knowing that Kate was safe, would remain safe, made it easy enough to just detach and just pretend that whatever was happening wasn't real because the only thing that was real was the soft green eyes that you saw when you closed yours.

Gladys doesn't bother to knock today. Just waltzes straight in with a bundle of books instead of the booze she used to bring. It is Sunday, and you do like to read now and then, but you miss the booze. Gladys spends more time at the boarding house now that James has put her up in a hotel and left to fight in the war. Sometimes she falls asleep mid-sentence in your bed, and you're careful not to disturb her when you finally decide to climb in next to her. It's your damn bed and you'll be damned if you'll let some princess that doesn't even pay rent steal your damn bed. You're not surprised when she steals your half of the blanket, or when you wake up with her sprawled across you, taking up more room than a woman that tiny has any right to.

Kate knocks more than Gladys does, and that's because she walked straight in on that one morning. But the bathtub at Gladys' hotel more than makes up for any inconvenience she puts you to in the boardinghouse. A bath, water as hot as you can get it, and no stream of girls making their way through the washroom. Bliss.

Today she's excited about the social commentary in a book called Phoenix or something, but she's bought a few books for you, Rockbound and The Thirty-Nine Steps among them. You open the first book, wondering if Kate will join you both tonight after returning from wherever she's been disappearing to for weeks. You read until you're sick of all the conflicts and turn to the John Buchan book instead. You're so deeply involved in the story of espionage that you hardly notice when Kate comes in and curls up on the bed with Gladys. You look up to see her watching you read, so you smile and hand her the other book. But Kate and Gladys in the same room means there's talk of James and Gene and society that turns its back on Gladys now. Their delighted laughter and soft conversation sets a nice backdrop for your book and you feel, for the first time in a while, that you are home.

You yawn, half an hour later, the book falling finished from your fingers to see Gladys and Kate, still curled together, fast asleep. It's so sweet that you smile. But although there is barely room in the bed for three, you've been avoiding touching Kate at all since her return. Other than that moment when she stepped into you and called you family. Or when you let her clean your glass-cut hand, the gentle touch a ghostly mockery of the way you used to be. You suppose you could sleep in Kate's room but if she wakes up in the middle of the night and decides to go to her own room, you don't want her to find you in her bed. You decide on the rotten sofa downstairs. It's only one night, and if the Princess can handle it, so can you.

You wake to find Gladys hovering over you. It's early, early enough that no one else is stumbling around the common room. Her hand is resting on your shoulder and Kate is peeking over hers. You know it's her hand because the way she touches you hasn't changed one damn bit and that's the biggest comfort you have these days. And you still call her Princess, but you're gentle when you say it in a way you never used to be. Something about teaching a grown woman how to wash her own underwear clears up a lot of class issues.

There's no dignity in carrying a torch for a girl who doesn't love you back. Gladys had said that and you thought she'd been talking about Ivan but sometimes you wonder if she doesn't sometimes, just a little bit, resent you mooning over Kate. Or has lost respect for you somehow. You're not obvious, you know, or else someone would have said something, rumors would be making their way back to you, but Gladys knows and you know she's seen the look of hurt flash across your face when Kate avoids you before you can straighten your face.

You pull your soft pack of cigarettes from your pocket, slightly crumpled from the way you've been lying on it the last couple of hours. You fish one out from the pack, fumble in your other pocket for your lighter. You take a couple of deep drags before offering the pack to Gladys, who shakes her head, and Kate, who takes one.

You're careful of the way you hold the pack so her fingers won't touch yours but they do anyway, fleeting flittering contact. You know Gladys is looking at you so you sit up, offer your lighter to Gladys, whose fingers brush yours and don't make you feel joyful and despondent all at once. You stretch your way to your feet and you know your back will be feeling the night on the rotten sofa by the end of your shift and you have to stop yourself from rubbing at your spine. No need to make them feel guilty for taking up your bed. You walk into the kitchenette and start putting together the coffee fixings, slicing a few slices of bread from the loaf. Kate takes them from the counter and puts them in the frying-pan while Gladys boils the kettle. You like this, working together toward a common goal in silence.

Gladys, as usual, is the one to break it.

"We didn't mean to kick you out of your own bed, you know." She whispers as soon as she thinks Kate is far enough away not to catch what she's saying. Kate is barely two feet away and her head jerks up at the sudden noise. She smiles at you.

"You didn't have to take the couch. You could have taken my bed, I was sleeping in yours anyway." You discover eye contact hurts this early in the morning and duck your head. You steal a slice of browned bread with your bare fingers because you feel the need to regain some bravado. You chew slowly on your way to get this morning's milk. Shouts and groans tell you the rest of the house is waking up and when you bring the milk back into the kitchen there are women everywhere and for once you're relieved rather than annoyed.

Gladys has already poured three coffees, Kate has relinquished the frying-pan to Rita, a small stack of toast all on one plate. You pour the milk and the three of you return to your room. You hover in the doorway with your coffee but Kate pats the spot beside her on your bed. You pick up your book from yesterday and place it gently on the side-table Gladys immediately takes the plate of toast from Kate and places it right on top of the book. You roll your eyes and sit next to Kate.

"Did you like that one?" Gladys asks in an undignified spray of toast crumbs. You wrinkle you nose but nod your head anyway.

"Yeah. Didn't understand some of the words though." You admit before sipping your coffee. Damned if you know how, but Gladys always makes the best coffee. The kettle is rubbish, the water tastes rusty but when Gladys makes the coffee it's always strong and rich and hot and perfect. It'd be infuriating if it wasn't so delicious.

"The Scotsman is hard to decipher, I've found." Gladys smiles. "I can't wait to finish mine. He really believes that something good can come from this war." You reach for another slice of toast and something in your back complains. You flinch, and Kate's hand is suddenly on your back so you flinch again.

"Oh Betty! You should have taken my bed. Or kicked me out. You know that couch is no good." Kate's hand is so warm and familiar that it's difficult to remember why you were reaching across her. Toast. That's right. You take a slice and straighten up, not quite shaking her hand off but you breathe easier when it drops from your back on its own.

"Yeah, I know, and that's why I don't let Gladys sleep on it any more. It'll be alright once I stretch it out." You tell her, not quite looking her in the eyes. It's too early, you tell yourself.

"Well, as part culprit I insist that you come to the hotel tonight and take a good long soak." Gladys says and you almost moan out loud at the thought of it. Hot, hot water and privacy.

"Sounds good to me, Princess," you say as you stand, brushing crumbs off your lap and onto the floor, sliding the buttons of your shirt undone as you reach for a fresh one. You pull one of Gladys' weekday dresses off a hanger and throw it at her then re-button and reach for your coffee. Kate is looking steadfastly at the book you had been reading when you turn around, and Gladys is trying to shimmy out of her impossible dress. You tug at a hem and it falls from her and Kate clears her throat. She finishes her coffee and slinks out of the room, shoulders in, the way she used to walk a year ago. Gladys looks at you and shrugs, the easy movement also bringing the clean dress over her head. You told her you wouldn't do her laundry yet somehow it made its way in among your things.

Kate doesn't talk to you on the way to the streetcar. Or on the streetcar. Or at VicMu. She barely even looks at you and ignores all of Gladys' concerned looks. You tell yourself you don't care, that this morning was just a break from your usual lack of interaction but you feel like you've taken a punch to your stomach as well as to your lower back.


	2. And I can't let it go

Gladys has never broken a promise. Not one she's made to you at least, other than that night she didn't come after Kate with you. She came through eventually and you guess that counts, even if a man died because you didn't have her way with words.

Gladys comes through for you with the bath as well. You follow her through the lobby, the doorman's fixed smile a grimace at that point in the afternoon. You follow her up the stairs, listening to her babble about Marco's family again and the injustice or imprisoning a man for his nationality and your face doesn't even twitch. You wait until she's locked the door behind you before you start on your shirt buttons, toeing shoes off and heading to the washroom. You turn the tap and sigh as steamy water pours against porcelain. In this moment you're so glad you know Gladys.

You're submerged when Gladys makes her way into the washroom, hands you a half-glass of whiskey and settles herself on the side of the tub.

"Kate stopped talking to you again." She says, her fingers slipping into the water once you take the whiskey from her hand. The water is hot and opaque and smells like lavender or some flowery scent you used to know, used to be familiar with before the war. You just sip slowly at your drink. You can almost feel all the tension in your back seeping away into the hot water.

"She stopped talking to you right after you pulled my dress off. Which makes me wonder if that's when she stopped talking to me too. She hasn't said a word to me since then, you know." So far she hasn't asked you a question so, until she does, you're staying quiet. You wonder if she'd planned this, trapping you naked and wet in her hotel room until she managed to wrangle an answer from you. But she'd offered before Kate went strange again, and Gladys is too impulsive to plan anything this elaborate for such a matter. For a fundraiser, sure.

"Well, Princess, maybe the sight of you in your underthings just made her want to run away."

"That can't be it. She sees that every day, and more, at the factory. No. It was something else." Gladys sips at her whiskey and you sip at yours too. It works faster with your head immersed in steam. "Do you think she thinks that you and I…" There's a knock at the door of the hotel room and both your heads turn to it, lazy from whiskey. "I'll just get that. Might even be a letter from James!" She says and gives a sudden smile. You turn back to your whiskey and contemplation. Gladys might be onto something. Kate might be upset about how close you've become with Gladys. But it's too hard not to be close with someone like Gladys, who descends upon you like an enormous aunty, clings to you like a limpet and supports you like a walking frame when you no longer have the strength to walk on your own.

"Kate! What a lovely surprise." You hear from the other room and you jerk upright, water sloshing from side to side (you never fill the tub up – there is a war on) and struggle to find a surface to put your glass on. Gladys has left the washroom door open, not expecting to invite someone in, and you really don't want her to invite Kate in without closing the door. Sure, you all see each other undressed at VicMu, but that's mandatory. You don't want to thrust your body upon her involuntarily. You'd rather she forget you had a body. So you slither-slide your way out of the tub and shut the door, retrieve your glass and throw yourself back into the tub. You can't make out any words from the other room, and you sink your ears below the level of the water to make absolutely sure you won't.

You're drying yourself off when Gladys slips back into the washroom. The way she pulls the door shut behind her speaks volumes. Kate's still here.

"I don't know why she's here." Gladys whispers.

"Does she know I'm here?" you ask as you slip your pants on, fumbling to turn your thick socks the right way around.

"She must have heard me offer my tub this morning, and she saw us get off at the same stop tonight." Gladys worries her lower lip with her teeth and your button your shirt before finishing your whiskey.

"So?" you ask as it burns its golden way down your throat.

"I don't know. This feels strange, doesn't it? It feels like I'm hiding you in here." She's almost wringing her hands and her discomfort is almost a joy to watch.

"Well, you are whispering." You smirk and hand her your empty glass.

"I don't know why." She says, rubbing the rim of your glass absently.

"Then speak normally."

"Betty, Kate's dropped in. I'm sure she'd appreciate it if you left your water in the tub." Gladys says out loud, loud enough that Kate should be able to hear her from the other room. You nod and brush past her and her hand grabs yours just as you touch the doorknob. She looks at you and you can read her face now and she's telling you not to scare her off. You nod, just barely, because you still don't like being told what to do by the poor little rich girl, but you nod and her grip slackens and you go into the other room.

Kate is perched on one side of the bed, bag clutched in one hand and her other hand holding the edges of her dress closed around her neck. It's become a habit you noticed develop as the bruises faded. She looks frightened and you feel your chest tighten. You don't want her to be frightened of you. You smile in the least-threatening way you can.

"Hey," you say softly. Her face pulls into a smile, her eyes locked on yours.

"Hey," she says.

"Bath's ready," Gladys calls from the washroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: still working on this as I'm waiting for sleeping tablets to kick in.


	3. And I can't get through.

Once Kate has disappeared into the washroom, Gladys pours you both another half-glass of whiskey. You pull your soft pack from your pocket and have the match to the cigarette held firmly between your lips before you remember to ask Gladys if she minds. She waves her hand at your hesitation and pulls a cigarette for herself. You light both with steady fingers, shaking the flame out and dropping the spent match onto a bedside table. Gladys sprawls on the bed, looking untidily domestic as you slide your way back to rest against the headboard, your back no longer complaining.

She's halfway through her cigarette when you feel her give in. Silences make Gladys uncomfortable.

"I don't know why she's here," she says, exhaling deeply.

"You said that before, Princess," you roll your eyes.

"Well, I don't know. But I could hazard a guess, I suppose. I think she's suspicious." Gladys is studiously avoiding eye contact and you freeze with your cigarette halfway to your mouth.

"Suspicious? Of what?" You ask, trying to simultaneously drink and smoke. You know where this line of inquiry is going and by any god that exists you wish you didn't.

"Of us." You're choking now, trying to inhale whiskey and drink smoke is a terrible idea but at least you've distracted Gladys. She's patting you on the back and you're trying not to make a mess but you can't stop coughing and you can't reach your handkerchief. You thrust the whiskey at Gladys and manage to extract it from your pocket before spluttering good-quality whiskey from your burning airways. She rubs your back absently and hands back your glass. You stuff your wet handkerchief back in your pocket with a shudder. "It makes sense, really. She was gone for quite a while and when she came back the two of us were… closer… than before."

"But you're engaged! You're above suspicion!" You remember too late that Kate is in the other room and lower your voice. "You're not like me."

"I've also been sleeping in your room four nights a week. Come now Betty, surely you can see why she'd leap to such an erroneous conclusion."

"Sure, if I turn my head sideways and squint. But Gladys, I thought… Ivan…"

"You thought she'd forget?" You nod glumly and sip gently at the whiskey. That poor whiskey didn't deserve to be treated the way you'd been treating it, spitting it up and letting it sit. It deserved to be savored over fine conversation, not used as a backdrop to the fifth most awkward conversation you'd ever had. Fifth or sixth, at least. You have a tidy mind and a good memory of past mortifications. "You told her you loved her, didn't you?" You nod and sip again. You may not exactly approve of James but the man certainly has some fine tastes.

"I also told her I had a boyfriend." You've run out of whiskey, fine James whiskey that James buys for his girl that he puts up in hotel room while he's off fighting a country you have closer links to than you do the other person in the room. So you stand and pour another half, grateful that neither James nor Gladys are the stingy sort. You stub out your half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray, then absently light another, sliding back onto the bed.

"So you thought she'd what? Just forget? Oh Betty."

"I know she didn't. She won't hardly look at me, won't hardly talk to me unless she needs something. And I deserve it. She trusted me, Glad. And I spat all over that."

"You didn't." Gladys has come closer and it isn't until you see her proffered handkerchief that you realize you're crying. You wipe your face with the back of your hand and throw back the rest of the whiskey.

"Thanks for the bath, Glad. Sure did the trick for my back. See you in the morning." You manage to stand and put the glass down before Gladys half-tackles you, pulling you into a full-body hug. You're frozen. And that's when you hear the washroom door creak open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: I own nothing except a bird and she is awesome and likes corn and is definitely not the rights to this show. Because she's a bird.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: I wrote this in 2013. I had never written fan fiction before, let alone femslash. Unbetad, because I have to use my BA for something. Reviews welcomed. Also, H.G. Wells and John Buchan? Geniuses. The title comes from Ani diFranco's song 'Both Hands'.
> 
> This starts after Season 2, episode 4. Further chapters will explore actual episodes.  
> Disclaimer: I don't own Bomb Girls or any of the characters therein.


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